PREFACE

TO THE

THIRD EDITION.

ALL my friends, learned or unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be "turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by Reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An Author's works are public property he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the Authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them; I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better.

As the Poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this Edition to make some additions and alterations to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the First Edition of this Satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope, were written and inserted at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume of Poetry. In the present Edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being

that, which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner; a determination not to publish with my name any production which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned, or alluded to, in the following pages, it is presumed by the Author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the Author, that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure, but Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to MASSINGER, and in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the Edinburgh Reviewers; it would, indeed, require a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the Author succeeds in merely "bruising one of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

ENGLISH BARDS,

AND

SCOTCH REVIEWERS.

STILL must I hear?-Shall hoarse Fitzgerald (1) bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,

And I not sing, lest, haply Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

Oh, Nature's noblest gift-my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!

The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose!
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride
The Lover's solace, and the Author's pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's (2) shall be free;
Tho' spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day, no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream

Inspires our path, though full of thorus, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

A

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
And men through life her willing slaves, obey;
When folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;
When Knaves and Fools combined, o'er all prevail,
When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail,
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are folies, e'en for me to chace,
And yield, at least, amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!-have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame:
I printed-older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave;
This Lambe must own, since his Patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from shame. (3)
No matter, George continues still to write, (4)
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example I persue

The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade
Save Censure, Critics all are ready-made.

Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, besilent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit,
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet carressed.

And shall we own such judgment? no-as soon
Seek roses in December-ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman, or an epitaph,

Or any other thing that's false, before

You trust in Critics who themselves are sore;

Or yield one single thought to be misled

By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Baotian head. (5)

To these young tyrants, (6) by themselves misplaced, Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;

To these when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, 'twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet so near all modern worthies run,
"Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.

Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er (7)
The path that Pope and Gifford trod before?
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,

L